


Sharpshooter

by ninemoons42



Category: Band of Brothers, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	Sharpshooter

  
title: Sharpshooter  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 2600  
fandoms: Band of Brothers, McFassy  
rating: PG  
notes: All explanations [here](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/post/11287933460/just-saw-parts-1-4-of-band-of-brothers). This was the inevitable fixit/AU/McFassy thing that came out of watching Eps. 1-10 of Band of Brothers. James W. Miller = James McAvoy, who in the original did not survive Episode 4; Pat Christenson = Michael Fassbender, who more or less makes it to the end. Cameos by many Easy Company members.  
Veers off from the events of Replacements; trigger warnings for war and soldiering tropes.  
I stand by my story that this *needed* writing. No regrets. ♥

  
Well, he couldn't exactly say this one was unexpected, but it still came as a shock. Miller reread the letter over and over – and each time the words became more and more incomprehensible – before he finally got up and walked out the door, ignoring the others.

The paper was all sharp edges and creases as he held it tightly in his fist, as he blinked the tears away from his eyes. It wouldn't do for him to be seen crying, not here. Sure, everyone here had probably received his fair share of Dear John letters – there was a rumor Nixon had gotten three all at once at some point – but he was also a newbie, nothing more than the mud on their boots. No one was going to sympathize with him if he cried over something – something as trivial as a breakup, anyway.

Trivia, compared to the war looming over their heads.

James W. Miller was more than aware of the thing that the Easy troopers seemed to believe in, and for him it made a lot of sense. Can't get close to anyone if you don't know if he'll last out the first fight, the first jump, the first exchange with the Krauts. He'd do the same, he guessed, if he survived. If.

There was a lighter in his pocket, a parting gift from his mother, and he knew that she was just religious enough to have had it blessed as some kind of talisman for him while he was away at war. Not that it made a difference either way to him; he appreciated the thought, but there was nothing out there waiting for the idea of his immortal soul.

He thought he had to feel proud of himself; his hands weren't shaking even as he extracted the lighter and a cigarette. It would have to be a very bad day indeed and then he'd consider not even lifting his rifle. Unsteady hands did not a good shot fire.

A deep drag, pulling the smoke into his lungs. He could feel the adrenaline receding, he could feel it as his heart slowed back to its normal pace.

 _...good-bye and good luck. Bree_

 _And good riddance,_ he thought, and he flicked the lighter back on, touched the flame to a corner of the letter and watched the words burn up. _Took you just long enough to forget, did you._ Sarcasm to the rescue, as always; it seemed to be the only way out for him now, as it had been when his father died, as it had been when he'd held his sister's hand as she slipped away into a coma.

“Gimme a light, too.”

He blinked – and looked _up_. Blast it, did all of the other guys in Easy have to be so tall? Or, perhaps, why had he been cursed to be so short? “Sure.”

“Thanks.” The man took a drag and exhaled over his shoulder. “You one of the new guys?”

“As you can tell,” and Miller jabbed himself carelessly in the chest. Not much to see there, except for the jump wings and the PUC.

“Yeah, well, I'm looking for the kid Shifty was telling me about. Says he's one of you. Possibly better than he is with the rifle, though I find that hard to believe. No one can beat Shifty at shooting, he's saved all our asses several times already.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

The other man raised an eyebrow. “Shifty Powers, kid, Easy's sniper, keep up. He tells me there's someone like him among you. You wouldn't happen to know which one he is?”

Miller felt his eyebrow twitch and – his mind went quiet; his body took over. Smooth motions. He went for his sidearm; he chambered a round and flicked the safety off and he was drawing a bead on the branches of the tree overhanging the gate and the path that led to the bar.

 _Bang._

 _Crack._

 _Thump,_ and a largish branch was on the ground. Miller could see the splintered end, where the bullet had severed it from the tree.

The other man was grinning sardonically at him. “Good shot, Private. But it only shows you have fast hands.”

“Miller, James W.,” he said as he put his pistol away, as he made a mental note to sit down and clean it at the first opportunity. Guns jammed all on their own all of the time; didn't mean he had to be lax about it, didn't mean he could get away with not taking care of his weapons. “It's good to have fast hands for a start. But accuracy's more important with a weapon like this.”

“Thank god I don't have to worry about accuracy too much. All I need to mind is that I'm not shooting at our own. Christenson, Burton. Call me Pat.”

They shook hands.

“That had to be some kind of bad news from home,” Christenson said after he'd stubbed out his dog-end in the dirt. “Burned it right up and you didn't let go until the very last moment.”

“Nothing more than a Dear John letter,” Miller said, and this time it didn't hurt to shrug. “I imagine everyone here's had worse.”

“Depends.” Pause. A chuckle. “You're wondering why I'm talking to you.”

“Nobody makes friends with replacements,” Miller muttered, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You won't talk to us till you know we've got the stuff Easy needs.”

“And right now what we need is an extra sniper, and if you're that one, I could use some help – and offer you some in return,” Christenson said easily.

“How's that?”

“Machine-gunner,” and Christenson pointed to himself. “You weren't listening earlier? Covering fire for everyone else except our own damn backs.”

“Except when you've got a good position.”

“This is Easy. We don't rightly remember what a good position is like any more.”

Miller surprised himself by laughing – and, belatedly, turning away.

“I know it's a good joke,” Christenson snorted. “Just because I'm laughing doesn't mean it's not true, though.”

“Yeah, I can appreciate it,” Miller said quietly. “So what're you offering?”

“Stick with me, with my group, and guard our backs – and in turn we'll try our damned best to make sure you survive.”

“Small promise for a big war.”

“I never said it was a foolproof thing, just a possibility.”

Miller smiled. “All right, you've got yourself a deal – you gonna handle the paperwork or am I still stuck with it?”

“Who said anything about paperwork?” Christenson pushed off from the wall and leaned briefly into the door. “Hey, Buck – yeah, everyone's all squared away – do me a favor and holler for Bull, will ya? No, I don't owe you any more cigarettes, motherfucker, get your own....”

Miller tried to stand up a little bit straighter as Bull Randleman stepped out. The burly man was his CO of a sort – he was the soldier in charge of the replacements.

“Yeah, Pat,” Randleman said, speaking around the ever-present cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Anything I can do for ya today.”

Christenson grinned. “Was gonna ask if you'd let us borrow Miller here, once we've shipped back out.”

“What for?”

“Sniper. Shifty says so. We'd appreciate having someone watch our backs.”

“So long as you watch _his_.”

“That goes without saying,” Christenson said.

Miller started, but just a little, when Randleman pinned him down with an appraising glance. “You on board with that?”

“Yes, sir,” Miller said after a moment's thought.

Randleman clapped him on the shoulder. “All right, I'll get to work on it. And Pat, you guys look after this one – I've seen him shoot, and I want him to fucking survive, you hear me?”

“Sure thing, Bull,” Christenson said.

Miller shrugged and looked down at his shoes – and then there was a heavy arm around his shoulders, and he looked up at a wide grin of what looked like genuine happiness. “Come on, kid, buy you a drink now you're one of us.”

Miller nodded. “I'd like that.”

///

They took the road to Nuenen under blue skies and bright sun; it was strange to be in a place like this knowing they were there to fight in Operation Market Garden something-or-other. But there were the others jawing about paintings and Van Gogh, and he was about to throw in his two cents when there was an urgent tap on his shoulder.

“Christenson!”

“Miller, what the fuck,” he hissed, stubbing out his dog-end on the side of the truck. Then he looked at the new guy's face, the deep lines in his forehead. “What?” He was suddenly more alert, like the adrenaline in the kid's body was getting to him, as well.

Miller shook his head. “Got a bad feeling about this place,” he said. “Too open. I don't trust this road. And there's no one in those houses ahead.”

“Keep your eyes peeled.” Christenson made a long arm and tapped Shifty's shoulder. “You getting the heebie-jeebies too?”

“Yep.” He was already looking up through his scope. That set everyone else on their truck off, and for a moment all Christenson could hear was the rapid clicks and clacks of safeties being disengaged.

“Shifty,” someone called, and they all looked down – to where Winters was peering up at them in concern.

“Slow them all down, sir,” Shifty said. “Miller and I, we don't trust this place."

“Is that so? All right,” was the response, and Christenson watched as the word rippled to the other trucks, as the others began to prepare for trouble.

He looked carefully around them, but his eyes were drawn back inexplicably to the silent, empty houses ahead – and he got to his feet carefully and was now standing over Miller. “Got your back, kid.”

“I hope so,” was the distracted reply.

The first shot cracked out.

“ _Everybody get down,_ ” Christenson yelled, and he wasn't the only one – his shout was almost lost in the tumult of gunfire and explosions, of cries for backup and for medics.

“Come on, come on, let me see you,” and he looked down to Miller muttering as he drew a bead on one of the windows – and then the kid grinned and fired, fired, fired.

A distant scream, and one of the buildings fell silent.

“Shifty, eleven o'clock,” Miller was saying as he reloaded.

“Yeah, I see him,” was the reply. “That was a good shot.”

Christenson was about to second the compliment when there was a very large boom just nearby, and everyone fell off the truck on the other side and he had a handful of collar and scruff in his hand, and he hauled Miller into the dirt next to him, crouched in the truck's shadow.

“Thanks,” Miller said.

“You just saved a lot of lives, kid. No charge.”

“Have I? We're not done yet. I might be thanking you again before this is over.”

“Right, so let's get it over with,” Christenson said, and he pointed out the culvert in which the others were taking cover. “Get your ass in there; I'll cover you.”

“Going,” Miller said, and he was scuttling across the road and there were hands pulling him down, white spades painted on dark green helmets. “Your turn!”

Christenson fired off a final volley and then turned, dropped, and ran.

Again there were hands reaching out for him, and he ducked as someone swung upwards from his crouch, and he was looking up at Miller, a shape against the blue sky as he continued to fire on the nearest clutch of windows.

Someone was yelling for the line to advance and Christenson reloaded in a hurry, led the group out of the culvert and as soon as they'd run around the corner Miller was there guarding his back.

“Hey, Pat, over here!”

“Buck!” he yelled back, waving in acknowledgment, and he sent the others forward, one after the other, providing what covering fire he could. “Go, Miller,” he said when the two of them were left behind.

The answer was silence – and he looked over his shoulder, suddenly afraid – but Miller was smiling again and he was peering through his scope at another set of windows. “There's someone in there, and they've got a clear shot to Compton and the others, you wanna help me take 'em out?”

“With pleasure,” Christenson said, and he got up and fired at the window – and hit the dirt immediately afterwards.

“Thanks!” Miller said – and it was his turn to fire, and the man in the window yelled and abruptly fell out of the window. “ _Now_ we can move, come on!”

Strong hand on his wrist, and Christenson hauled himself upright and chased after the others.

“Good teamwork,” Buck said.

“He just saved your ass,” Christenson said. “Sniper in that building.”

“I saw. Hey, Miller, thank you,” Buck called.

Miller grinned and gave them a thumbs-up.

The rest of the fight had everything to do with running and bullets and trying to stay alive. Shifty and Miller watching over the battleground and taking out potential threats even before the other troopers realized they were already in danger.

But even the two sharpshooters could do nothing against the artillery pieces hidden in the town and when the order came down to retreat, they were stubborn enough to be the last to leave, watching everyone else's backs.

///

“You're both idiots, but you did the right thing,” Winters was saying; Miller looked over to the side, saw the sardonic half-smile on Shifty's face, and held his peace. “By risking your own fool heads and those of the men protecting you, Easy sustained very minimal losses. Just...don't do that again in a hurry, all right?”

“Sir,” Miller said, and they saluted him and walked out.

As soon as they were outside, Shifty grinned and slapped him on the back. “Stay alive, kid. I'd rather you stuck around. It's good to know there's someone like you who understands.”

“I'll do my best,” Miller said, grinning back.

They turned the corner to hoots and catcalls and a poker game in progress. “Well if it isn't the two heroes,” Guarnere shouted, looking up from his cards, and he half-got up to smack Shifty on the back of his head. “Thanks for saving my ass back there. Wish you'd been faster about it, though.”

“It's points, man,” Luz said.

“Yeah, so that means everyone gets points but us, whoopie-fucking-do,” Shifty laughed, and loped off.

All Miller wanted to do now was clean his weapons and get some chow, and he was turning away to do the same, when someone called down to him from one of the windows: “Hey, come on up, we've been waiting for you!”

He smiled and tossed off a salute to the guys in the card game, and jogged upstairs to see the others, to eat.

It was good to be alive and among friends like Christenson.  



End file.
